


Good Omens prompts

by kelex



Series: Tumblr Prompts [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-05-12 09:22:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19226269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kelex/pseuds/kelex
Summary: little vignettes and scenes and such based on Good Omens tumblr posts.





	1. SNAKE.  BIG, BIG SNAKE

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [tumblr post](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/490672) by forineffablereasons and mad-madam-m. 



> If at all possible, the tumblr post (or facebook post, or insta post or what have you) will be linked

Crowley did not often return to his flat, except to shout at and water his plants. Aziraphale thought it might have been that Crowley, in his flat, was entirely too locatable, and Crowley much preferred to be unfettered.

Which is why, upon entering the bookshop after tea, Aziraphale was not at all surprised to find a great big black-scaled snake sunning itself on the W bookcase. "Hello, Crowley!"

One baleful yellow eye opened. "You're disssssssturbing my sssssssleep."

Aziraphale smiled softly. "Oh, very well, but do try not to shed on the first editions."

The snake's tail lifted to mimic a rude human gesture, then draped himself back gracefully into the sun.

* * *

It wasn't as if he'd forgotten that Crowley was sleeping in his bookshop, but Aziraphale was so accustomed to it that it was a surprise when someone brought him up almost six weeks later. "Excuse me? I'm sorry, I was woolgathering."

"I said, that's a nice statue you have up there. Did you have to crane it in?"

Aziraphale meant to answer, really he did, but he was very dismayed to notice that the customer had chosen a first edition Wilde, _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ , priced slightly above market value at £700. "Oh, no, no cranes," was all he could get out. 

Above them, Crowley opened one eye at the distress in Aziraphale's voice, and realized what was happening. Stretching to his full seven foot length, Crowley hissed menacingly.

The low hissing made the customer turn, and he came face-to-face with angrily glowing yellow eyes and dripping fangs dangling from the top of the bookcase. The hiss gor louder, and Crowley's forked tongue flickered out, tasting the customer's overly-cologned fear.

He screamed. "SNAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAKE! BIG!! SNAAAAKE!!!!" echoed through the shop, and Aziraphale caught the Wilde first edition as the customer tried to throw it at Crowley. 

The shop emptied in seconds with no purchases, and Aziraphale turned to face a very smug-looking snake. "Thank you, darling." He dropped a kiss on Crowley's scaly forehead, and whistled to himself as he replaced the Wilde on the shelf. "I think I shall close early this afternoon. Would you like to join me for dinner? I rather fancy sushi."

Sleep or food. Crowley slithered to the floor, morphing from giant snake to normal-size human-ish. "I could eat," Crowley agreed, stretching and popping his spine. "Bet that one's going home to change his pants andh is trousers."

"You know, if you ever want an actual occupation, I'd love to have you around as a deterrent. See someone trying to buy a book, scare them off. Word will get round soon enough that Mr. Fell keeps a big, scary snake in the store that won't let you near the books." 

"Long as I get my nap between times, I'm all right with that." Scaring the piss out of people actually made him giggle a bit, but he wasn't about to share that with the angel. "Come on, you promised me food, and I am starving."

"You should be, you've been sleeping for a month and a half." 

the end

[inspiration post](https://bookgeekgrrl.tumblr.com/post/185586192194/you-know-i-love-small-snake-crowley-hanging-around)


	2. The Question Before The Court

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley demands to know exactly when Aziraphale realized he was wrapped around the angel's little finger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Links to appropriate historical information at the end

Title:  The Question Before The Court Is This

“When exactly did you realize that I would do anything that you wanted me to do?”

Aziraphale was startled, because it had been quite a long time since he’d even thought about it.  “I’m sorry, my dear?” he asked, playing for time to actually consider the answer to the question.  

“When, exactly, did you realize that I was wrapped ever so snugly around your little finger?” Crowley repeated, kissing the digit in question even as he refilled both their drinks.

Aziraphale sipped at the wine in the glass, considering.  Which was really more playing for time, because he knew the precise moment.  “1252.”

Crowley blinked.  “1252?  What the bloody hell happened in 1252?”  He nearly spat out a mouthful of wine when it hit him.  “1252!?”

“It’s hardly my fault you stayed drunk for so long after that,” Aziraphale answered easily.  “But yes, it was 1252.  I had just found you in that silly little tavern, pouring cheap liquor down your throat as fast as you could buy it.”

“And it wasn’t anywhere near enough.”  He dragged his hands over his face.  “So that was when you realized a drunk demon could be persuaded to do what you asked.”

“Actually, it wasn’t.  I did sit down with you, although I know you don’t recall it, and I asked you what had gotten you in this state.  And you told me that you’d gotten... oh, what was it, it wasn’t a commendation, it was--”

“A memo of appreciation,” Crowley supplied, rolling his eyes.  “The Commendation came later, for the Spanish one.”

“Yes, that’s right.  But you had just found out what the humans were doing to each other, and when I asked you if you’d been responsible for this, you told me in no uncertain terms that not even a demon could imagine the things that those people were doing to one another in the name of Heaven.  I realized then that you were as distressed about it as I was, even though there was really nothing I could do to prevent it.  It was our side, after all, at least nominally, because these things were being done in the name of God and Heaven, even though they were quite evil.”  

Crowley just looked at Aziraphale, waiting for the rest of the story.  

“Are you sure you want to hear this?  It doesn’t... well, it paints you in quite a kind light.”

Crowley’s scowl was deepened, but he nodded.  “Yeah, go ahead.”

“I asked you couldn’t you stop it, and you said to me,  _Angel, don’t you think I’d be doing something about it if I could?  It’s your lot, after all, and if downstairs caught wind of me stopping something this big that your side was doing?  They’d love me for years.  But I can’t.  Humans don’t listen when they’ve got God on their side.”_ He sighed softly.  “It was when you said that, that I knew you weren’t the demon you appeared to be.  You wanted to help, but you couldn’t.  Not wouldn’t.  Couldn’t.”

“And led to finger-wrapping how?”

Aziraphale actually blushed.  “I, well.”  

“Out with it, angel, before I pull it out.”

“I asked you wasn’t there  _anything at all_ that could be done, and you answered, leave it to me.  A few days later, Pope Innocent IV issued a papal statement that sanctioned the torture of heretics, but also limited what could be done to them, and how often.  They could only be tortured once, it could not kill them or make them lose limbs, and that the evidence be absolute before it was done.  That was a lot, Crowley, especially for a demon.”

“My office had a field day with it.  They loved how I hamstringed those people.”  He sighed.  “You’re telling me my feeling guilty that people are worse than demons is what made you realize that--”

“That you were quite open to suggestion, yes.”  Aziraphale finished the sentence before Crowley could.  “Especially from a certain angel.  It’s what influenced me into agreeing to the Arrangement, because I saw that you could be trusted.  From then on, well.”

Crowley heaved a sigh.  “Thank... Somebody.  At least it took you seven hundred more years to figure it out.”

“Seven--are you saying--Crowley, you... I don’t believe it!”  Aziraphale was spluttering and waving his hand about, sloshing the dregs of wine in his glass.  

Crowley was just sitting back, smirking and enjoying the angel’s discomfiture.  Truth be known, he’d have done whatever Aziraphale had asked of him as soon as he’d raised a wing to shelter his supposed enemy.  At least that was never getting told.  

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In 1231, the Medieval Inquisition began (a precursor to the Spanish Inquisition later.) In 1252, torture began to be used in the Inquisition. ([source](https://www.infoplease.com/history/world/1200-1299-ad-world-history))
> 
> In May of 1252, Pope Innocent IV issues the papal bull ad exstirpanda, which authorizes, but also limits, the torture of heretics in the Medieval Inquisition. ([source](https://www.onthisday.com/events/date/1252), full text of _[Bula Ad Exstirpanda](http://www.documentacatholicaomnia.eu/01p/1252-05-15,_SS_Innocentius_IV,_Bulla_'Ad_Extirpanda',_EN.pdf)_ , Wikipedia [entry](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ad_extirpanda) that explains it in simple language


	3. I Love This Bar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is That Guy at his local pub, where he and Aziraphale have stopped for a drink before going out for ice cream in St. James.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://hetrez.tumblr.com/post/186530643836/does-anybody-else-ever-think-about-how-crowley-in

“I can’t believe you talked me into this.” Crowley’s body reclined in the chair in a very non-Crowley way. “We should be out in the park getting ice cream.”

“Here.” Aziraphale shoved a bowl of peanuts across the table. “Work on that.” His eyes were scanning around the bar, making sure no one came in through the back alley while he was concentrating on the front door.

The bartender brought a bottle of scotch to the table, with two glasses. He gave Aziraphale a long look, from his head to his feet and back up again, and then his face broke into a small smile. 

“I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale demanded. 

“So you’re real, then.” The smile widened. “Lost that bet, but it’s worth the fifty pounds. Anthony, nice to see you again.”

Anthony? Aziraphale mouthed, and Crowley just stuttered through a smile. “Thanks.”

The bartender headed over to the end of the bar, where two men were clustered together, and he counted out two stacks of fifty pounds each, then pointed to the table where Anthony was sitting with his friend. “He’s real after all, lads.”

One of the men gave him a long, speculative look. “Looks a bit poncy to me.”

The other shrugged. “So does Anthony,” he pointed out around his bottle. “Doesn’t bother us none.”

Each man pocketed the money from the bartender, and went back to their conversation. 

The door flew open, bell jingling madly. “Crowley, the traitor!” got shouted out loudly, and everyone looked.

“Oh, here we go,” Aziraphale muttered, and slunk down in his seat. 

Whatever else Beelzebub would have said was muffled by the scrape of chairs and stools being pushed back. The two men on stools had their empty bottles to hand, the burly looking man with the hard-hat had lifted a wrench to his shoulder, and the rest of the patrons were scattered in between but moved to stand around the table where Crowley was sitting. 

“Help you?” asked the bartender, and in his hands was the rifle kept behind the bar for robbery attempts. 

Beelzebub blinked, because this was not what they had planned for. “Yezzzz, we’re here for Crowley–”

Two bottles being broken were the answer to that query, as was the racked slide of the shotgun. “Don’t think so, mate. He’s ours, so you and your stupid little hat can turn around and leave,” added the bartender. 

Crowley looked over at Aziraphale with surprise, and the angel’s expression was just as confused. “don’t look at me,” he whispered. 

“We’re not–”

One of the broken bottles connected with the fly-shaped hat. That was the strike that broke the dam, and suddenly the entirety of the bar had descended on Beelzebub and the Stunt Demons they’d brought with them. Stools got broken, more bottles were cracked over heads, and a wrench was swung with enough force to draw blood.

Chastened, Beelzebub and the Stunt Demons turned and ran.

A cheer went up from the patrons of the bar, and the bartender placed the rifle back behind the counter. “Round for everybody, on the house!”

Crowley spoke up next. “Round after that, on me.”

“And after that, on me,” Aziraphale added. 

More cheers went up as the bartender started pouring drinks. Without fail, every person in the bar came by Crowley’s table and slapped him on the back. Most gave him variations on Good on you, mate and we look after our own.

When Aziraphale went to the bartender to settle their bill before leaving, the bartender made change from the fifty pound note, and passed it back. “Look, don’t let him come alone so much any more, all right? He needs a friend, and with you being the only one he ever talks about, don’t be a stranger, right?”

Aziraphale dumped all the change into the tip jar. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he doesn’t show up alone again,” he promised. 

He was rather glad that the real Aziraphale was still sitting at the table in his Crowley suit, because Crowley certainly didn’t want the angel to know how much he’d been drunkenly pining for him. But having people stand up for him? that was new, and perhaps it was lucky that Aziraphale was in his Crowley suit, because it meant those people got the gratitude that they deserved, instead of the demonic grumbling and blushing they were used to getting.

“Oi, Crowley!” He looked down at Aziraphale’s pocket watch. “Shouldn’t we be toddling off?”

The End


	4. Stress-Knitting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley stress-knits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://snake-in-the-bookshop.tumblr.com/post/187360652160/one-little-detail-i-love-from-the-novel-is-that

Not that he’d ever admit it, but Crowley is a champion knitter.

It’s completely by accident; there was, about seventy years ago, a older lady who would sit outside the bookshop and knit while she watched the people go by. 

For a week, Crowley watched the woman, and then finally, he had to know. He sat down on the bench beside her, offered her one of the pastries he’d brought for breakfast, and asked the question. “What are you doing?”

The old woman had carefully put the knitting away, took one of the jelly pastries, and answered. “I’m dyig, my dear.”

Crowley had been stunned. “Dying like…”

“Dying like, I’m sixty years old and I have cancer that they can’t treat. So I come out here to this lovely shop, I watch the people who are alive, and I knit for my granddaughter. She’s just about to turn one, and I won’t live to see her turn two. So I knit their stories for her.” After finishing the pastry, she pulled out the blanket that she was working. “The pink square, there was a skinny young thing that come through, and her jacket was just that shade of pink. It made me think of something my granddaughter might wear, so it got this square.” She continued on, pointing to each square and giving the reason behind it. 

The next day, Crowley brought the woman a bright red yarn. 

“Oh, dear, that would be perfect for your hair!” 

The day after, Crowley brought her tan. 

“Do you know, this is exactly the color of the jacket that the shop owner wears.” Then, “This bench wasn’t always here, did you know that? I came by one day, and I looked for a place near by, but there wasn’t anything. I came the next day, and here it was.”

“Miraculous, really.” 

The third day, the woman had a spare pair of needles, and shoved them into Crowley’s hands. “Here, start a blanket of your own. If you’re going to sit here and listen to me, least you can do is knit my stories into your own blanket.”

“I don’t know how,” Crowley admitted, but he held the needles like he saw her holding them. 

“Just you watch me, dearie, you’ll get the hang of it.” 

Crowley did. By the next week, he was well into his blanket, always kept in her bag, of course.

The third week, the lady wasn’t on the bench, although Crowley waited all day. She wasn’t there the next day, or the next. A week went by, and Crowley knew she had died. Only then did it dawn on him that he didn’t even know her name. 

A day later, the bell over Aziraphale’s door jangled, and he heard, “Mr. Crowley?”

“Yeah, that’s me?”

There was a young man, suit and tie, slick and carrying a lumpy brown package. “Do you have some identification?”

Lawyer. Crowley dug his wallet out and showed his identification, and then waited while a pile of papers were brought out. “What’s this, then?”

“There was a codicil to the will of Mrs. Colleen Leyton. She asked that after her death, this package be delivered to Mr. Anthony Crowley, care of A. Z. Fell & Co. bookshop,” he explained. After collecting the required signatures, he passed over the lumpy package. “I’m sorry for your loss, sir.” 

Crowley nodded and took the package into the back room of the shop. Sitting on his favorite couch, he opened the package. 

His unfinished blanket sat in the wrapper, along with skeins of unused yarn, a photo album, and a thick envelope. 

He opened the envelope, and read the letter. _Dear Anthony, I know that you are not going to accept this, but I don’t truly mind. You asked me once why I didn’t fight, why I didn’t keep going. This photo album will answer that. My husband is gone, my children are either passed away or simply don’t care to come home. My granddaughter will lilkely never get the blanket that I made her, and that’s all right, too._

_You finish yours, young man. And then you make another. And another. For as long as you’re alive, you knit your stories. That nice shop owner, Mr. Fell, he told me your name. I hope you don’t mind. But he thought you wouldn’t think to tell me, and you didn’t. It’s funny, but I never thought to ask. You were my friend, Anthony, when I didn’t have any others._

_Knit that into a square. And then knit one for your friend Mr. Fell._

_I’ll see you again someday._

_Colleen_

Crowley has never opened the photo album. 

But Priscilla Leyton, on her second birthday, received a package from London with a beautiful hand-knit blanket from her grandmother.

And when Crowley gets frustrated, angry, or upset?

He knits.


	5. Happy Halloween!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has a Halloween tradition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you guys over at The Ineffable Project! <3 <3 <3 (although I really should stay away from the #plot-bunnies channel. For my own sanity.)

It's been going on for many years now, long enough now that parents are the ones telling their kids, _don't forget to stop by the bookshop. Not the big one, the one next door._ And there is an endless stream of children, from those barely old enough to walk to those old enough to really know better. It doesn't matter. The door is thrown open after the first "Trick or treat!" and it's like taking a peek into Halloweentown. There's plastic ghosts dangling from the high ceiling, there's a very-real-looking-but-please-don't-let-it-be skeleton lounging by the cash register, and there's a huge black rubber snake coiled on top of the nearest bookcase.

  
"Oi, look at that! We're being invaded, angel!" The man who opens the door is head to toe dressed in black, with long red hair braided down his back. Last year, he was dressed as a Regency Dandy; the year before, he'd answered the door in absolutely real _plate armor._ This year, he's glued what looks like a goat beard to his chin, and is wearing a Shakespearean ruff around his neck. There's a ghostly figure that's somehow taped to his back, wearing a name tame that says _Hello, My Name Is... Hamlet's Father._

"Be careful, dearest, those goblins can be dangerous!"

_Hamlet_ muttered under his breath about _somebody_ not playing along. "Well, let's see what we've got here. Oh, my lady!" He offered a sweeping bow to the little seven year old dressed like a princess.

  
"You may kiss my ring," one boy intoned, dressed as a king with a green plush snake wrapped around his arm.

"Prince John!" Crowley did bow again, and he pressed a closed-mouth kiss onto the grubby plastic ruby. "And Sir Hiss, I presume."

"You presume correctly." The boy regally held out his bright-green pumpkin.

Crowley greeted the other children appropriately, getting gigles from them all, and then he dropped King Size 3 Musketeers and Toblerones into each bag or pumpkin.


End file.
